


Good For the Soul

by justanothersong



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Translations, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hiding in Plain Sight, Humor, Language, Mild Alcohol Abuse, Plot, Reader Gets a Little Bitchy, Reader-Insert, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Sacrilege, Travel, romania - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader has a very peculiar knack for finding what's lost, and when an old client contacts her to seek out a former spy hiding somewhere in the wide world, she's skeptical at best. But with an expense account and nothing better to do, the reader embarks on an adventure to not only find Bucky Barnes, but to convince him to come home -- whatever it may take.</p><p>(Expecting this to be a long one, along the same lines as <i>Thief of Hearts</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Another day, another empty Hydra safe house. It was cold and bitter, raining down ice and sleet at the little shack in Latvia where Steve had been certain, all but positive, that they would find Bucky hiding. He slumped against the rotting wooden porch beam and sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he told the others, breath spiking into steam in the frigid air.

Tony glared at him from behind his visor. “Latvia, Steve. We’re in _Latvia_. On Pepper’s birthday, Steve. Her _birthday_.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to come!” Steve replied dejectedly.

“Yeah, but who could resist a trip to the middle of nowhere?” Clint put in, chuckling to himself. He remained in good spirits, in spite of the situation; mostly because he felt that someone had to, and with Steve brooding and Tony seething, it left it to him. “C’mon, let’s head back,” he announced, and turned to trudge through the sleet away from the rundown shack.

Steve sighed and nodded. “I’m sorry, Tony,” he mumbled as he began to follow Clint.

“Latvia!” Tony groused in response.

 

It had been four years since Steve Rogers had learned that the best friend he had ever had, the friend he had failed and been unable to save, was alive. Unlike the few scant others from his former life who had survived to greet him in the new century, Bucky Barnes had barely aged, looking worse for wear but still much the same as Steve remembered, with the glaring difference of a shining metal appendage where his left arm had once been.

Four years, and Steve hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since.

The world had changed drastically in such a short time; SHIELD had fallen and Hydra had been scattered to the four winds. They had gathered enough intel to realize what had been done to Bucky, the horrors he had suffered at the hands of his captors and the new ones he wrought when his mind was no longer his own. 

Four years was a long time to be on the run. Steve had been trying his damnedest to find his old friend, with the full support of his team, wavering only in the early days, when the truth of just who the Winter Soldier was had begun to sink in, ever since he realize the other man was alive. A rumor here, a whisper there, and Steve was off like a shot, intent on bringing Bucky back to some semblance of a normal life.

But it had been four years of near-misses and dead-ends, and it was beginning to wear down on them all.

When they finally made it back to Stark Tower, it was Pepper who approached Steve. He had been sitting quietly in the living area of his own suite of rooms, staring blankly at a television that was running the local news on mute, clearly dejected.

“No luck again?” Pepper asked, as if she hadn’t known, settling herself in the armchair across from his sofa. She hadn’t knocked; FRIDAY would admit her anywhere in the Tower that she wanted to go, and she knew that with his spirits low, Steve would have made excuses for not inviting her inside.

Steve sighed and looked up. “I’m sorry, Pepper,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know it was your birthday. I hope you had a nice one, in spite of my dragging Tony away.”

Pepper smiled indulgently. “No big parties, no hangovers. I spent the day at the spa with Natasha and then we had dinner at Ai Fiori. It was a lovely day and I didn’t once have to say ‘Tony, no!’ or ‘Stop, don’t do that, put that down!. Best I’ve had in years.” She laughed gently and Steve couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m glad I didn’t run it for you,” he said, smile fading, and sighe again.

Pepper leaned forward in her seat. “Steve, you’ve got to stop doing this. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the team.”

“I know that,” Steve agreed with a sigh. “On the face of things, I know that. But how can I stop looking, Pepper? Bucky took care of me when I had no one… and I couldn’t return the favor. I have to find him.”

Pepper nodded. She could only imagine how difficult it must be for Steve; he had woken up to a new world where everyone he had ever loved was gone, and had suddenly got a glimpse of his own past, live and in the flesh. How difficult it must be to know there was someone out there, one person in all the world who could understand what he was going through, still so far away and lost to him.

“I think we can go about this in a different way,” Pepper told him. “Are you busy tomorrow? There’s someone I want you to meet.”


	2. Chapter 2

You’d slept on the couch again; you weren’t entirely sure how that kept happening, but you thought it might have something to do with the fifth of Southern Comfort you’d been knocking back on the regular as of late. You were still tired, your back stiff, and your head pounding when a knock that seemed to match it in intensity came to your apartment door.

Looking down at your wrinkled clothes and the empty bottle on the coffee table, you smacked your dry mouth a few times and groaned.

“Well, shit,” you muttered.

You stood and stretched, grunting as you tripped over the boots you had kicked off on the living room floor the night before and made your way to the door, expression growing as dark and sour as your booze-pickled mouth felt when the knocking increased in rapidity.

“Jesus Christ, I am coming!” you growled loudly at the door. “And I swear to god Nicky, if this is you about splicing my cable line again, I will kick your ass down one end of the hallway and back up the other for waking me up!”

You threw the deadbolt open and yanked open the wooden door with a resounding creak, the chain on the door only allowing it to open an inch or two.

You eyed the impeccably dressed strawberry blonde at your door skeptically. “What?” you said by way of greeting.

Pepper Potts only smiled. “It’s nice to see you again too,” she replied. “May we come in?”

“Why?” you responded, frowning. You had done business with Pepper years ago, but it had been finished and over with quickly, and with little complication. You couldn’t imagine what she could want with you now -- or why she would be in Chicago at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning.

Pepper sighed, shaking her head and saying your name before pausing and nodding her head at the figures standing behind her.

“I have some people here who would like to meet you,” she told you. “Prospective clients.”

You eyed the others warily, then frowned again. “Gimme a minute,” you muttered, and closed the door. Glancing around the room, you were vaguely impressed that it hadn’t devolved into a full-on pigsty. You kicked your boots into the hall closet and grabbed the empty bottles to toss into the trash, opening a window a crack to get rid of any errant odor you’d grown blind to. 

A quick check in the bathroom mirror confirmed that you looked like hell, hair a mess and top wrinkled beyond repair, so you tossed it into the hamper and splashed some cold water on your face before grabbing a fresh Batman t-shirt out of your dresser. Your hair was a total loss; you just grabbed a hair tie and threw it on top of your head in a messy ponytail.

You heaved a sigh before opening the door to Pepper’s greeting smile. You didn’t return it.

“Well,” you said. “You’re here, you may as well come in.”

“Thank you,” she replied cheerfully, beckoning the two men crowding the hallway behind her to follow. You closed the door after they entered, following them towards the living area and settling yourself into an overstuffed easy chair with a tear in the seams of the arm after they’d awkwardly grouped together on the couch, Pepper sat primly between them.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said, shrugging out of a coat that probably cost more than your security deposit. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. This is Steve Rogers,” she went on, gesturing to the man to her left, “And Clint Barton,” she finished, indicating the man to her right.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Steve said kindly, though his expression was caged and a little bit unconvinced of his words.

“Same to you, Captain,” you responded glibly. Did she really think you wouldn’t know? You had eyes and a television set, there was no way anyone could have missed the miraculous reappearance of a WWII era icon, alive and well in the 21st century.

Turning to glance at the other man, you squinted, then pointed at him. “You I already know,” you said after a long moment. “Didn’t you jump bail in Miami a while back? That was one of my first bonds.”

Clint laughed. “Whoa, yeah! I knew I recognized you! How the hell have you been?” He reached across Pepper and slapped Steve on the knee, pointing at you as he spoke. “Wasn’t even in the wind two days and this girl found me. Never thought I’d be taken in by someone right out of high school but damn was I impressed!”

Steve arched a dirty blond eyebrow. “You jumped bail?” he asked, clearly not entirely aware of his companion’s storied history.

“Well yeah,” Clint told him, nodding. “I used to be a thief? But not really. This was like a lifetime ago, before you were… uh… chiseled out of the ice.”

You yawned, loud and pointedly. “Not to bust up this little traipse down memory lane,” you said. “But clearly you don’t have a bond out, Mr. Barton, and Pepper, you wouldn’t be so calm if you needed me to track down that billionaire boyfriend of yours. So what gives?”

“Oh, right, of course,” Pepper said, putting back on her smile. It had dropped a little as she listened to the exchange between Steve and Clint; it seemed she had forgotten that the superhero-archer had started his career on the wrong side of the law. “Captain Rogers could use your expertise in a very sensitive matter,” she explained, reaching into a wide leather purse at her feet to pull out a thick manila folder. 

You wanted to hand it straight back to her when she thrust it into your hands but curiosity got the better of you and you opened it, scanning pages and pages of redacted confidential documents interspersed with photographs, first of a soldier with a charming smile in tones of black and white and on to full color shots of a man in tactical gear and a mask, an arm clad in gleaming silver. The last few pages were handwritten notes, chicken-scratch really but you could get the jist of what was being said, accompanied by grainy security footage stills of a man in a dark red sweatshirt, a baseball cap pulled down over his head.

It was all the same man, you realize; the paperwork repeatedly mentioned a Sergeant James B. Barnes, aka “Bucky” Barnes, and most recently referred to by the code name “The Winter Soldier”.

For a moment you felt it, the same spike of enthusiasm you would feel at the start of every challenging job. You’d felt it the first time you met Pepper, when she was a despondent assistant in search of her boss, who had taken a private plane and gone on a transcontinental bender. But this time it got tamped down, buried under a crushing nausea that made you desperate for a drink.

You closed the folder and handed it back to her. “I don’t do that kind of work anymore,” you said flatly, walking out to your kitchen. You had half a bottle of whipped cream flavored vodka still chilling after a failed girls’ night a few months ago; it would have to do.

You at least bothered to use a glass.

The Captain followed you, frowning a little at the drink in your hand. “A little early, isn’t it?” he asked delicately.

You snorted. “What are you, my mother?” you replied flippantly, rolling your eyes. Even saying the words made a hot ball of shame burn in your stomach -- or that might have been the vodka. 

“I suppose we should let you be then,” he said slowly, and you tried to ignore the sadness in his eyes. 

You had a vague idea of the story of Bucky Barnes. War heroes from the forties had been featured in a lot of the old films your father would watch, and Bucky’s story had been played out more than once: brave, valiant, friend to the great Captain America before anyone else believed in his worth. Dead so young, another casualty of the war to end all wars -- the second one in a row, fancy that.

And you’d heard of the Winter Soldier too, the scare tactic who was all the rage in those two-minutes-to-midnight films of the eighties, when everyone was certain that a bomb was coming from Russia at any moment and commie spies were infiltrating every aspect of American life, their boogeyman assassin and spy creeping by right under the noses of the military and taking them out one by one.

You think Patrick Swayze even played him once. It’d been kind of hot.

But those stories were nothing compared to having Captain Steve Rogers standing in your kitchen, watching you drown your sorrows in cheap flavored vodka with a sadness in his eyes matching how low you were feeling.

“Look,” you told him, pointing with the index finger of the hand clutching your glass. “I just don’t do that kind of work anymore, okay? It’s… it’s too dangerous and too complicated. Bail bonds are easy. Some sleazebag takes off and I bring him back to collect my prize money. It’s just… it’s easier. Not all of us are cut out for the cloak and dagger routine, you know?”

He nodded, blue eyes wide and heartbreaking. “I understand,” he told you, and gave a short nod with a pained smile. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. We should be going.”

Pepper sighed and stood, gesturing for Clint to follow her. “My card is on the table, in case you change your mind,” she called over her shoulder.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I won’t,” you called back.

You threw the deadbolt shut on the door behind them and finished your drink, then crawled into your bed for the remainder of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

When you woke again it was to a scream on your lips, visions of gore and butchery still burning in your mind. It was dark outside, clearly late, and you scrounged a bowl of cold cereal in the kitchen before returning to the living room, intent on firing up your laptop and looking for new postings of bail bonds with a bounty to be collected. Your face drew into a frown when you saw the manila folder sitting on your coffee table, an ivory colored business card with dark maroon script sitting on top of it.

You sighed. Say what you will about Pepper Potts, you thought, but damned if she wasn’t persistent. You supposed she had to be, having cut her teeth working for someone like Tony Stark. Your job finding him may have been brief, but it had been a pain in the ass; even after you had nabbed him and convinced him to return to New York, he’d drifted between acting as a cranky petulant child and an overly-hormonal teenager with roaming hands for the entire plane ride home from Malta.

You vaguely recalled threatening to break his face around the fourth or fifth time he had grabbed your ass; god love Pepper for dealing with that on a regular basis. 

 

Curiosity got the best of you and you opened the folder again, setting your cereal bowl in its place on the coffee table. You smiled a little at the first photo, a black and white shot of Bucky Barnes wearing a serious expression even as his eyes danced with amusement and his dress uniform hat sat cocked just slightly at an angle atop his head. He was handsome, more than you would have expected, seeing a real photo up close and personal instead of a reprint of a reprint in an old newspaper or textbook. And this was before whatever had been done to him, to make him somebody’s vision of the perfect soldier.

It was far more interesting than any novel you had picked up in recent memory. You found yourself paging through the file for hours, reading every scrap of paper available and letting your gaze linger over each ensuing photograph. It was unfathomable to you, how the handsome soldier with laughing eyes had become this cold, cruel thing that you saw in the later images; what could they have done to crush his spirit, you found yourself wondering. An what could anyone do now, to bring him any peace?

You could understand why he was running. The notes at the end of the file seemed to indicate that Captain Rogers -- for it was his handwriting, his journalling of his search for someone he referred to as ‘the best man I ever knew’ -- believed that Bucky had been slowly returning to himself, memories of his past resurfacing after the torture and mind-wiping efforts of his captors had begun to fade. 

With his memories of who he had been warring with what had become, you could absolutely understand why he had fled. You’d probably have done the same.

You frowned to yourself and turned back to the first image in the file, staring down at the soldier for a little while before closing your eyes with a resigned sigh.

You didn’t want to do this kind of work anymore. But you supposed if there was anyone you could trust to be straight with you, it was Captain-freaking-America.

It was well past midnight when you picked up your phone, but Pepper sounder chipper and alert, as though she had been waiting for your call.

“Fine,” you told her by way of greeting. “I’ll do it. But it won’t be easy and it may take a while. I want an expense account and a deposit before I get started. I’ll find him, and I’ll bring him back. Do we have a deal?”

You could almost hear the smile in her voice as she responded. “Yes, we have a deal,” she agreed amiably.

You shook your head, wondering what you had gotten yourself into, and headed to the kitchen to finish off the last of that god-awful vodka.

 

You woke on the couch again, swearing at yourself and the empty vodka bottle on the coffee table, tipped on its side over the open manila folder. Thankfully it had been empty when you dropped it and nothing could spill to ruin the file; the clean-cut image of the missing soldier stared up at you from the pages, and made you feel oddly open and exposed. You moved the bottle and closed the file, feeling a strange sense of relief when those laughing eyes no longer gazed out at you, and sighed. 

Head in your hands in hopes to abate the frantic pounding of your hangover, you wondered just what you had gotten yourself into.

 

A hot shower did little to alleviate your worries but it did make you feel decidedly less like the walking dead. You choked down a couple scrambled eggs before you started working, the grease of the meal settling your stomach after a night of sugary cereal and over-sweetened liquor. You left the file on the coffee table but cleared the rest of the clutter, a few magazines and a candle centerpiece that had long ago burned down to a waxy stub. From a bookcase in the corner, you pulled a clean map of the world from a stack and spread it out on the table: it was time to get to work.

You’d met other people in the trade, who tracked down missing persons, felons skipping out on their bail, tax dodgers, and witnesses on the run, but none of them seemed to work the same way you did. You always started with a map and a pack of markers; smaller cases, you could make do with something regional, maybe a few local states, or beyond that, a simple map of the contiguous United States, but given the notes that the Captain had left behind, you knew this would be a complicated job.

The map on the table in front of you showcased the world at large, with North and South America to the left and Europe, Africa, Asia, and Australia to the right, the Atlantic ocean separating the continents down the middle. There were a few areas you could cross off immediately.

The Captain and his team had already ascertained that Sergeant James Barnes was not in the US or any of its protectorates; Tony Stark had been able to tap into surveillance and traffic cameras on much of the North American grid and leave a constant image scan running, searching for anyone who would resemble Barnes, to no avail. You took a black marker and placed a large X across the continent, and cast your eyes down to South America.

While it wouldn’t be outside of reason that he would travel south, it seemed unlikely that a Soviet-trained spy would have been taught Spanish or Portuguese, which would be almost mandatory for an extended stay in Central or South America; you took a red marker and placed a large X across the lower American continent.

Africa was out as well. The Captain’s notes indicated that there had been suspicion for a time that the Winter Soldier had been the culprit behind a high level assassination in Wakanda; the news hadn’t been kept quiet, and some attempts had been made on Barnes’ life while he was still in the States, in retribution. The furor had cooled down since, but it was still held as classified information that the real assassin had been caught and dealt with by Captain America and his team; Barnes wouldn’t know that, and it seemed unlikely that he’d make the move to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire. Africa received a black X as well, a definite no.

The Middle East was probably out, the area volatile enough with the current political climates. It might have been an easy place to get lost, but speaking the wrong language in the wrong town might be enough to cause alarm. You didn’t think he’d go there; another red X.

Australia seemed unlikely. It was warm there this time of year, and a man hiding an advanced prosthetic beneath a long-sleeved shirt would stick out like a sore thumb. A red X for Australia as well. Asia too; between the warmer climates and the language barrier, you thought he might have stuck to what he would know.

You turned your gaze to Europe, and pulled a purple marker from your pack. Italy and France were too touristy, England would hold too many memories; Russia was big enough to get lost in the shuffle, but there would be eyes on him there, and the risk of running into his former captors. Scandinavia was a possibility, but you thought he might be out of his element there. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania had all been on the Captain’s checklist, visited and found completely clean.

Germany, never. Too close to the heart of Hydra’s beginnings.

You uncapped your marker and started to outline the borders of several countries together, creating one large mass to focus your search. Poland and Belarus, the Ukraine and Moldova, Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary… Central Europe. That’s where he’d be hiding, you were certain of it.

It was still a huge area and you’d have to set up a very specific search algorithm to start looking for clues, bits and blurbs in local newspapers and small chat forums, whispers of someone who was just a little different, but not enough to cause concern.

Your search parameters decided upon, you pulled out your laptop and started typing.


	4. Chapter 4

Pepper had been ecstatic that you had taken the job; Steve had been a little more reserved. He could tell you weren’t right, that there was something wrong that you weren’t talking about. Pepper had talked you up during the flight west to meet you, remarking that you had been kind and very pleasant to deal with, though very no-nonsense and professional.

“She found Tony in a matter of days,” Pepper had counseled during their flight back to New York on one of Tony’s private jets. “And convinced him to come home. On his own. Didn’t have to send Happy down or anything.”

Steve nodded slowly, but seemed unconvinced. “She was hungover,” he pointed out. He enhanced senses had picked up on the reek of booze before you had even opened the door, the bottles in your trashcan giving you away with their sickly scent and the bags under your eyes doing little to dispel his concerns.

Pepper frowned. “I noticed that,” she agreed with a short nod. “That is… unusual. But I have faith in her abilities, Steve. I know you don’t like taking a backseat and letting someone else do the work but this time, I think it’s for the best.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, Steve nodded but said nothing.

Clint, stretched out across a nearby sofa on his back with a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, gave a short chuckle. “She pulls this off, I say we turn ‘Tasha loose in the world and sic her on’er. World championship of hide and seek.”

 

Pepper called three days later, checking in. A certified letter had come a day after you had taken the job, full of contracts and confidentiality paperwork, as well as banking materials and a credit card attached to an expense account. You’d hesitated, but you’d signed it, and sent it back to Stark Tower with a courier who arrived a few hours later.

“Any news?” Pepper asked in lieu of greeting. It seemed she wanted to get directly to the point; not that you could blame her. Small talk in these situations was almost always unbearable.

“I narrowed down my search area,” you told her, portable phone cradled in the crook of your ear while you pinned notes you had been making to a bulletin board on your living room wall. “I’ve got it running through a few million databases, but it’s going to take time.”

“What’s your setup like?” Pepper asked curiously. “Are you running on your own OS or something we made at Stark?”

You snorted. “Pepper, I have a three year old prepackaged piece-of-crap Dell laptop that is currently held together with skateboarding stickers and prayer.”

The line went quiet for a moment, before you heard her click her tongue. “We should move you here,” she said resolutely. “There’s more than enough room, we can cordon off one of the conference rooms and put together an entire interface for you to…”

“Pepper, no,” you interrupted, frowning though she couldn’t see. “I like my crappy laptop. This is how I work. Let me work.”

There was another pause, and then she sighed. “I’m dealing with some… very… anxious people here,” she told you, voice dropped low enough that it was clear she was hoping someone nearby wouldn’t hear. “Clint and I keep telling them that you’re the best and you need to work on your own terms, but I’ve got a mopey super-soldier and a twitchy Tony constantly creeping up behind me and…”

“I can hear you even if you whisper, you know,” a voice called from somewhere in the background and you had to stop yourself from snorting.

Pepper huffed. “See?” she told you. “Super-soldier. Enhanced hearing. Helpful when someone leaves their phone on vibrate and loses it, not so much when you’re trying to have a PRIVATE PHONE CONVERSATION, CAPTAIN ROGERS.”

“I am so glad I never moved to New York,” you said, feeling cheerful for the first time since taking this gig. “Because I could be putting up with all of that instead of you.”

Pepper groaned your name. “Do you have anything I can relay to get this patriotic monkey off my back?”

“Tell him I’m looking for a very small needle in a very large haystack, and short of burning everything to the ground and sifting through the ashes, there is no way I can make this go any faster than it already is,” you responded, staring at the map you had tacked up on your bulletin board. You uncapped a black marker and drew a large X over Serbia; you’d exhausted that vein of the search that morning.

“That’s not helping,” Pepper replied. You could practically hear the frown in her voice.

You sighed. “Tell him that I’m focusing on central Europe, I’ve managed to cross a few countries off my list already and as soon as I have a solid lead, I will call. Until then, please leave alone.”

“If you promise to stop drinking your breakfast,” Pepper responded quickly, and you stopped short. After a long, pregnant pause, Pepper said your name, checking to see if you were still on the line.

“I will call you when I have something,” you said coldly, and hung up the phone, throwing it onto the couch in frustration. Your hands crept to your temples for a moment, a sharp headache starting to build. 

You looked up at your bulletin board and then to your laptop where it sat on the coffee table. It was a terrible piece of equipment, and would probably be dead soon; you kept your windows cracked open to allow cool air inside and had two fans blowing directly on the laptop so it wouldn’t overheat. You sighed.

“Fuck this,” you muttered, and grabbed your keys and wallet off the kitchen counter. You spent the rest of your evening at Babe’s on Milwaukee; it was a bit of a dive but it was cheap and you could walk home if you needed.

 

You woke in a cold sweat, actually in your bed for a change and blessedly alone. You’d had a few lapses in judgments during your nights out lately, thankfully not too many that you’d brought home with you. You were surprised that you hadn’t made such a trespass the night before, with the way you had been feeling lately; the dreams were back, and only the oblivion of drink or the warmth of a body curled up beside you seemed to fend them off. 

The nausea was there again and you took several deep breaths of cool air, still flat on your back on your mattress, attempting to tamp down the ill feeling. It was your own doing, you knew that; the drinking would have to slow down, before it really became a problem. But you needed the oblivion of it, the wild, thoughtless hours it provided and the occasional moments of unbroken, solid sleep. You paused in your ruminations, your ears picking up the sound of chimes coming from your living room.

You held your breath a long moment, waiting to hear it again; on cue, after several seconds, the chimes sounded again and you gave a soft, relieved sigh.

You had been searching for days without avail, looking for that needle in the haystack. Anyone fitting the description of Barnes had been the precursor, but a handsome dark-haired man with blue eyes wasn’t as unusual as it would seem. No, you’d had to expand on it; he wouldn’t be showing off his prosthesis so you added to the description that it would be someone remaining covered, perhaps claiming an injury to explain away long sleeves and gloves. You had even factored in the thought that he might have had it removed somehow, leaving him missing the appendage entirely.

But it wasn’t just physical descriptors you were looking for. People were terrible at remembering the details of those they met in passing, and there was little likelihood that someone might pass Barnes on the street and remember enough to speak on his appearance with any sense of authority. There were other things, though, that might cause a stir. Barnes had received the same sort of enhancements at Captain Rogers, so there might be an occurrence that would catch a witness’ eye.

You set searches for unusual feats of strength, for rescues and mysterious heroes. You looked for chivalrous strangers who saved women from attacks in the nighttime streets or helped little old women when their cars were stuck in the snow. 

You were looking for a needle in a haystack, but what you found turned out to be a miracle.

 

The article was a translation of a translation of a translation, pulled from some small provincial paper and reworked into a tabloid, eventually finding its way into a little-known Catholic missive that had low readership in the widely Orthodox area in which is was published. A little town with an even smaller village, attended to by a tiny church, had experienced a terrible accident: a young boy had become pinned when a cart carrying farming equipment had overturned on a muddy road, the machinery too heavy to life and free him. The only solution would be to attach a team of horses and drag it away, the young boy’s life forfeit for the act. They had called for the village priest and when the man had arrived, a miracle had occurred. 

The priest had inspected the scene and in a moment of what was described as ‘blessed strength from the Holy Spirit’, had single-handedly lifted the equipment long enough that the boy was freed with naught more than a broken leg. The priest had then stripped away his own coat to wrap the child, offering up his scarf and gloves against the cold weather; the witnesses swore the man’s hand shimmered with the light of God.

The boy lived, and the priest returned to his tiny parish, all in a little town in central Romania that still carried on with life as though it were the 19th century, replete with horse-drawn carriages and cobbled streets.

You knew immediately it was him. You’d always had a knack for it, zeroing in on the right possibilities and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you had found your target; it was why you had been so good at what you do.

You picked up your phone and dialed Pepper’s number, listening as it rang on the other end; twice, then three times, then interrupted on the fourth ring, a breathless Pepper answering with a friendly but hurried, “Yes, hello?”

“I found him,” you said simply.

She paused a moment before responding, heaving a deep breath. “How soon can you be in New York?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go commune with nature and lose myself in the wilds of Wisconsin for a few days (aka spend time in a camper in the Dells) so there'll be a short break in updates, loves.

You bought a first class ticket with your expense account; you’d never shelled out for anything like that before and figured you might as well try it, since it was on Tony Stark’s dime. Apart from feeling a little underdressed when surrounded by the tailored suits and overpriced designer duds on your fellow travellers, it turned out that flying first class was everything it had cracked up to be: the seats were huge and comfortable, the food was served on real dishware, and the flight attendants were ridiculously accommodating. You’d already decided it would be another first class trip to Romania before you had even disembarked in New York City, and booked your ticket to Cluj-Napoca on your phone while waiting at baggage claim. You would leave the following evening.

You grabbed a cab at the airport and watched the traffic pass by through the window, not looking forward to this meeting in the least. You preferred to work on your own and not to be held on so short a leash, but with great expense accounts came great nannying from the client, you supposed. That the entire affair had to be kept off the radar of any governmental body the world over made it all the more necessary for you to deal with Pepper and her cadre of superheroes on a closer basis than you would like. It started to rain during the ride, and you thought it seemed fitting; the weather matched your mood.

 

If you’d thought that the TSA had been invasive and irritating, it was nothing compared to the security at Stark Tower. It took a half an hour for you to even get to the elevator, and once there, a mild computer-generated voice advised you that you were being scanned for weaponry, chemical agents, and any hidden mutagenic powers.

You snorted. “Why don’t you just check my blood pressure while you’re at it?” you muttered.

There was a slight hum and then the genteel voice replied, “Slightly elevated.” If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it sounded smug.

 

Pepper greeted you when the elevator doors slid open, and you were surprised to see that she looked about as harassed as you felt.

“Oh thank god,” she said, grabbing you quickly by the arm and pulling you out of the elevator, your rickety wheeled suitcase pinwheeling out behind you more than once as you tried to drag it down the corridor.

Pepper spoke at a rapid pace, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise. “They have been climbing the walls since I told them you had a lead and I mean that literally with some of these people,” she said, and you had the distinct impression that her careful control was beginning to come unraveled.

You couldn’t help but snicker; of all the jobs you had worked, your time tracking Pepper’s billionaire boss (and later boyfriend) had been among the most memorable. Tony Stark had been whiny, handsy, irritating as all hell, and he had done everything humanly possible to annoy you. He had also been funny, generous, and overwhelmingly broken in a way you wouldn’t understand for years to come. 

You couldn’t understand how anyone -- even someone as resourceful and smart as Pepper Potts - could handle that on a daily basis, and then take it to bed. Some people were clearly made of stronger stuff than others.

She stopped walking and suddenly turned to look at you, eyes a little wider and a little crazier than you were completely comfortable with.

“I’m not even kidding,” she told you, shaking her head so that a wisp of her elegantly styled strawberry blonde hair fell into her eyes. “Tony found a boy who can climb the walls. I think he’s still in high school and they just sort of… adopted him. Like a mascot.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Pepper, I think you might need a day off.”

“Several,” she replied with a tense smile, grabbing your arm and pulling you along the corridor once again. “On an island. With no super-people. And a masseuse.”

You snorted. “Shouldn’t you be used to this kind of thing by now?” Still moving at a rapid pace, Pepper shook her head without looking back at you again, continuing your joint jaunt down the corridor.

“I thought that bringing on a professional would help,” she explained. “Steve was spending all of his downtime searching and dragging half the team with him when he thought he came up on a good lead, everyone was exhausted and bitchy and I couldn’t take it. But now? It’s even worse.”

She stopped and whirled on you again. “Now I have Steve and Clint asking me if I heard from you and Natasha wanting to know more about you, because apparently your business with Barton went down during one of their ‘off’ phase,” Pepper wanted, replete with finger-quotes. “Tony wants to meet the girl who won’t make use of his advanced tech here and on top of that, on top of THAT, there is a teenage boy chasing after me asking me for SAT study tips because Tony had to tell him I scored in the top percentile. So this? You being here? This is what I need. The sooner we find Bucky Barnes, the sooner I get them all off of my back!”

She grabbed your arm and started dragging you again.

You were about to laugh, and make some snarky comment about her super-friends needing a super-chill pill, but you found yourself suddenly thrust out into a large room crowded with several of Pepper’s aforementioned super-people, including the subjects of two of your past jobs.

“Hey! Finders-Keepers!” Tony called and you didn’t even attempt to suppress the groan that rose to your lips at his words.

“Really?” you asked him. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

Tony shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of people to work with around here and between Capsicle and Katniss over there, I’m running out of material. What about ‘Lost ‘n Found’? Or ‘I Spy’?”

You snorted and rolled your eyes, pausing to rummage around in the carry-on bag slung over your shoulder for a moment before handing off a blue striped plastic bag to Pepper.

“Brought you something from home,” you told Tony with a smile. For all of the trouble he gave you upon the circumstance of your first meeting, you found it difficult not to like Tony; it had been years since you had seen him and yet his playful banter made it feel as though it had only been a matter of hours. Pepper took the bag and ducked out of the room, returning moments later with a bowl that she set on a sideboard and quickly filled with the bag of popcorn you had brought.

“What’s this?” Tony asked, moving to survey the bowl; the popcorn inside was an array of flavors, butter, cheddar, and caramel corn all mixed together.

“Garrett’s,” you explained. “Chicago Mix. Thought you’d like it.” Tony nodded and quickly scooped up a handful, humming his approval on the first bite. He always seemed to be snacking on something, you had remembered; you couldn’t recall ever seeing him sit down to a full meal, rather grabbing something small and portable along the way. You thought perhaps his mind moved so fast that it didn’t afford him the time to sit and luxuriate over a meal.

Spying the large form of the Captain hovering just outside of your peripheral vision, you turned towards him and put on one of your best smiles; you knew you hadn’t made much of a first impression and, for the sake of Pepper’s sanity, you thought it might be best to try and get off on the right foot this time around.

“I take it you have questions, Captain?” you asked.

He nodded, blue eyes full of unspoken worry and excitement. “Yes, and please, call me Steve.”

“Okay then, Steve,” you told him, earning a small smile in return. “What did you want to know?”


	6. Chapter 6

An hour’s time found you seated at a large glass table with Pepper and all of the people she struggled to corral and control on a daily basis. Tony had insisted on ordering in dinner before allowing Steve to bombard you with questions, so you were picking at pad thai while the group seemed to be interrogating you en masse.

Natasha seemed particularly interested in your history in the business, how you had gotten started with your peculiar career path and how you worked. She was more than a little intimidating, equal parts butcher and bombshell, astonishingly beautiful in a shockingly dangerous sort of way. The coolness of her expression and the grace of her movements seemed to imply that she could snap your neck as soon as smile at you, and you believed it wholly.

For his part, Clint was cheerful and kind, reminiscing to some degree on his early days as a thief and his run from the law. He seemed to look back on your shared past as a clever, amusing little anecdote, finding the whole thing terribly funny in hindsight. He couldn’t remember even why he had chosen to run, and seemed surprised at the fairly large bounty you had gained in hauling him in. That he and Natasha should be two halves of one whole would seem almost unimaginable, if you hadn’t been able to see the way his good humor seemed to temper her darker side. She smiled even at his cheesiest one-liners, after all.

For his part, Tony seemed determined to grill you about every piece of technology you used in your work. He had been astonished -- and seemingly a little offended -- that you didn’t have a single piece of Stark technology at your disposal, and that you had refused Pepper’s offer to relocate your search to his own base of operations.

“That’s not how I work,” you told him, shaking your head.

“But it could be,” Tony responded. “And it would be better.”

You snorted. “I’ve already gotten the lead I needed, Tony. I don’t think there’s much room for improvement there.”

“Uh, speaking of leads?” Steve prodded hopefully.

You turned towards the Captain with an apologetic expression; the others had so monopolized the conversation at the dinner table that you hadn’t had even a chance to answer a single question from Steve. You could only imagine how frustrating that must have been, given that you had been hired at his behest. 

“Right, I’m sorry,” you told him, nodding your head. “I sort of lost track of the plot there…” you went on, and gestured around the table to the others.

Steve gave a dry chuckle. “Don’t worry about it,” he told you. “Happens all the time.”

“I’ve been running a search on anyone matching Sergeant Barnes’ description, coupled with information about unusual occurrences,” you explained, pausing to take a drink of water. 

“Why unusual occurrences?” Steve asked, brow crinkling as he frowned. “Bucky’s on the run. Would think he’d be trying to keep a low profile.”

You nodded. “Most people do,” you agreed. “But it never works out that way. People who are trying to lay low are sort of an… aberration. Trouble always seems to find them. They make waves without realizing it. Eventually, it gives me an opening to catch up to them.”

“And what sort of waves had Bucky been making?” Steve pressed, the concern in his voice obvious to even the most untrained ear.

You’d kept your carry-on bag with you, a beat-up messenger bag in faded grey fabric that served as your lifeline when traveling, carrying anything important and everything you might need on your way. You pulled it from where you’d hung it over the back of your chair and retrieved a folded stack of sheets from your home printer; you had assumed they’d want to know the details, after all. You handed them over to Steve who read them quickly, expression growing more and more confused.

“I don’t understand,” he said, gesturing towards you with the papers you had given him. “A priest? What does that have to do with Bucky?”

You gave a short nod. “It has to do with Bucky because it is Bucky,” you told him.

“A priest?” Natasha echoed, frowning; Steve held out the paperwork to her and she took it, quickly scanning the printed articles.

“He’s not even Catholic,” Steve told you, frowning.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You have to understand,” you told him. “The Catholic church doesn’t have a very strong foothold in this area. Something happens that can be construed as miraculous and they’d seize upon it immediately. Nice little story for a newsletter, maybe pack a few more bodies into the church. So they exaggerate, change a few details. A kind passerby becomes a priest, a metal prosthesis becomes the light of God.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “How can you be sure it’s him?”

“It’s him,” you responded with a slow shrug of your shoulders. “I know it is.”

“But how?” Steve pressed, not quite believing, even as certain as you seemed to be.

“Look, it’s him,” you told him. “I can’t explain how I know it, but I know it. That’s all.”

“And we’re just supposed to trust that?” Natasha piped up. She had dropped the papers onto the table, seemingly discarded, and clasped her hands in front of herself. “You’re asking for a lot, for us just to take your word for it. You’re completely untested. And you have a drinking problem.”

You had expected that, to some degree. You didn’t even flinch. “Found your boy-toy, didn’t I?” you replied evenly. “Tracked him right down to the circus tent and brought him back for his bench warrant.”

Clint gave a snorting laugh. “Boy-toy,” he repeated with a chuckle.

“We need to get you that on a t-shirt,” Tony agreed sagely.

You hadn’t shifted your gaze from Natasha. “Not that I even need to need to explain my methods to you,” you added. “You’re not the one who hired me, and you’re not the one who’s footing the bill. I don’t see why I have to explain any of this to you at all.”

Pepper sighed and said your name. “Please,” she added. “Let’s keep this civil. We’re all just very concerned about the Sergeant and it’s making everyone a little tense.”

You turned to her with a tired, bland expression. “I didn’t take this job to have my methods questioned, Pepper.”

“No one’s questioning anything,” Steve broke in, clearly trying to keep the peace at the table. There was an underlying desperation to his words, and that much you understood; he had been searching for his friend for a long time. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how lonely he must feel, even with the new relationships he had made, with no one who could share or understand the experiences he had lived long before any of the others had been born.

You imagined that Bucky Barnes knew that feeling all too well.

“Really? Because it sounds like Red over there is trying to interrogate me,” you replied, frowning.

Natasha spiked a scarlet eyebrow at your words. “Do you want me to interrogate you? Because I could do that. It’d be much more interesting for me in the long run.”

“Jesus, Tasha, c’mon,” Clint breathed out; you could tell by his movements that he had placed a hand on her knee beneath the table. “Let the lady do her job. If she can bring Barnes back, then…”

“Then what?” Natasha replied quickly. She stood, crossing her arms over her chest and pacing the room, green-eyed gaze turned towards the Captain. “I’m sorry, Steve,” she told him. “You know I’m not comfortable with this. Even if she’s right, if this is Barnes… we don’t know what kind of state he’s in. How can it be safe to try and bring him back here?”

From the way Steve sighed, you could tell that this was an old argument.

“It’s been years, Natasha,” he said plaintively. “You said yourself that the kind of mental control they had on him is something that had to be kept up, or it would fade. He was already starting to break out when I first found him. He’s got to be at least a little back to himself by now.”

“Wishful thinking,” Natasha muttered, shaking her head as she paced.

“Look, Captain,” you cut in. “I’ve been hired to do a job and I’ll do it, regardless of what your… friend… thinks. I read through the file you gave me and I know the risks. I’ll bring him home.”

“We’ve all had our reservations,” Tony spoke up, voice grave and serious in a way you had never heard from him. “And we discussed this, at length, as a team. And we decided, _as a team_ , Natasha, that we were going to find a way to bring Barnes back. It’s been settled.”

She shook her head. “Until he gets here,” she replied. “Or kills your bloodhound before she can bring him in.”

“You think I don’t know the risk?” you asked her.

“I don’t think you do, no,” Natasha said, turning and stalking towards you. “You’ve gone after what, petty thieves?”

“Hey!” Clint interjected. “‘Petty’? Really?”

She ignored him. “Spoiled billionaires out on a bender? Bail bonds and babysitting are nothing compared to the Winter Soldier. He has no empathy, no consideration, no thought of his own outside of completing his mission, and he would snap you like a twig without a second thought if you got in his way.”

“A man without empathy wouldn’t risk his cover to save a child,” you retorted, crossing your arms in an unconscious mimic of Natasha’s posture. “I’ve read the file, Ms. Romanov. I’ve read your own depositions and Dr. Banner’s clinical summaries. I know what I’m facing down and I’m not afraid, because I don’t believe that the man I am after is the monster you remember.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Well it’s your funeral,” she told you.


	7. Chapter 7

Natasha took her leave after your brief argument, Clint close on her heels and offering an apologetic shrug as he followed her out. You understood her hesitance to some degree; Barnes’ file indicated that she’d had contact with him in her youth, during his days as the mindless soldier he had been warped into, and that must have left quite an impression. Still, there was something to be said for optimism, and having faith in colleagues -- if the scientific minds attached to the endeavor were certain that Barnes would present no real harm, there seemed little reason for her not to trust them.

And she really didn’t have to target you personally, now did she? It was a shame, really. Even before being contracted by Pepper, you had found the Black Widow’s story fascinating and the woman herself sort of stunning in person; you’d have liked to get to know her better. Pity you should butt heads so quickly.

The dining room had quieted and Steve still watched you with big, doleful eyes; you had to admit, the handsome captain had a corner on the puppy-dog-eyes market. No wonder so many women swooned over him. He wasn’t necessary your type -- blonds were never your thing -- but you could see how someone could get there.

“So what happens now?” he pressed delicately, clearly trying not to see too intrusive, particularly after Natasha’s invasive line of questioning.

“I have a flight booked into Cluj-Napoca,” you told him, pausing to take a sip from a glass of water. You hadn’t realized how little time you had spent around other people lately until you found yourself being grilled over your methods and being forced to vocalize much more than you had in recent weeks; your throat felt scratchy and dry just from the effort of talking. 

“From there it’s a short train ride to Zalău, and I can hire a car to take me to one of the outlying townships. After that, it’ll be a hike into Crăciun,” you explained. “That’s where I’ll find Barnes.”

Steve frowned. “You don’t have to bother with all of that,” he told you, shaking his head. “We have a lot of resources here. We could take a quinjet straight through or even stop out far enough to hike in, and not upset the locals.”

You shook your head in response, brow creased. “I don’t think you understand, Captain,” you told him. “This isn’t a joint effort, Steve. I’m sorry. But I work alone.”

There were those puppy-dog-eyes again, wide and blue and so very concerned. He gaped, glanced back and forth between you and Tony, then you and Pepper, as though grasping for some support for the argument he was about to make.

“You can’t go alone!” Steve finally sputtered. “I mean… it’s not that I think Buck’d hurt you, really it’s not, I just… I’ve been looking for a long time. I need to be there when you find him.”

“No,” you said firmly. “Look… I know this guy is your friend and all, but your own files indicated that he bolted the last time you saw him, right?”

Steve didn’t respond, so Tony filled in with an affirmative “Right.”

“Part of what I do is finding people,” you explained, hoping he would understand. “The other part is convincing them to come back to whoever is looking for them.”

“No, this wasn’t the plan,” Steve said as he stood. He paced the room, clearly agitated; you had thought Pepper would have explained your methods before your arrival, so that the Captain would have understood that you would be bringing the sergeant back under his own power, not via some militaristic extraction effort.

“Yes, it was,” you told him, and crossed your arms over your chest. “Someone should have told you from the start. This is how I work, Steve. I find people and I bring them home, on my own. They make the decision to come back. I don’t make it for them.”

“How can you be so sure that he’ll even agree?” Steve said, turning back to face you. “He doesn’t know you from Adam, ma’am.”

“A familiar face did nothing to draw him back before, did it?” you replied.

“She has a point,” Tony spoke up delicately. When the captain turned from frown at him, he held up his hands in a position of surrender. “Look, I’m not trying to start trouble here, Cap. Barnes freaked out and took off the last time he saw you. Don’t you think it’d be better if someone else was there to bring him in?”

“She did bring Tony back,” Pepper added in helpfully. “Tony, Steve. She convinced him to stop being a beach bum halfway around the world and come home.”

You snorted. “To be fair, a lot of that was just getting him dried out.”

Steve sat back down at the table with a sigh. “And that’s another thing,” he said, voice gentle in a way that had you rolling your eyes, knowing what was coming. “The drinking-”

“Look,” you began, holding up a hand to stop him and trying your damnedest to keep the irritation out of your voice. “With all due respect, Captain, you don’t know me at all. We met when I was having a very bad day after an even worse night so, yes, I was hungover and, yes, I tried a little hair of the dog to stave off a blinding headache. That doesn’t make me a drunk.”

Steve didn’t look convinced. “You’re right, I don’t really know you,” he relented. 

“I promise you, I will do my best to bring your friend home to you,” you told him, voice softening. “I’m not perfect and I can’t guarantee that everything will be sunshine and daisies, but he’ll come home. I’ve never failed in that respect.”

“You’re asking me to trust you with a lot,” Steve told you, clearly torn.

“Steve,” Pepper interjected in a gentle tone. “I wouldn’t have brought you to her if I didn’t think she could do this, and do it well.”

Slowly, Steve nodded. “I’ll trust you on this,” he said quietly, eyes on Pepper. He turned back and offered you a small smile. “Both of you,” he added.

You smiled in return. “That’s all I’m asking. For what it’s worth, I’d very much like to see your friend back with the people who care about him.”  
“Thank you,” Steve said, reaching across the table to give your hand a squeeze. He stood and nodded to you and the others at the table, saying, “I think I’ll leave you to it. It’s been a long day.”

“Goodnight, Steve,” Pepper called in response, smiling gently at the man as he left. 

“What about you, Snooper?” Tony asked, and you rolled your eyes at his latest attempt at a lame nickname. You could tell that he knew it was bad, but he grinned all the same. “We have a guest room all set up for you, ready to hit the sack?”

You yawned in response, not having realized how late the evening had grown. “I probably should,” you agreed with a nod. “I have to hit a few thrift stores in the morning before my flight.”

The billionaire at the other end of the table raised a dark eyebrow at your words. “Uh, I’m not saying you should go wild on Fifth Avenue or anything, but you have an expense account. You don’t have to hit up the Salvation Army if you need new threads.”

You stood and stretched. “I need to look the part of run of the mill backpacker in eastern Europe,” you told him. “That means worn jeans and faded t-shirts, not Dolce and Gabbana.”

Tony snorted. “True,” he agreed. “Pretty sure when you showed up on my beach you were in a bikini and a sarong, guess you have to blend in.”

You rolled your eyes, slinging your bag from the back of the chair over your shoulder. “You would remember that,” you told him.

“Yes, he would,” Pepper agreed with a laugh, standing up from the table. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to your room so you can get some rest,” she said, and you nodded, bidding Tony goodnight before falling into step beside her.

 

“I’m sorry about the third degree in there,” Pepper told you as she led you back down the long corridor towards the elevator. She was visibly much calmer than when you had arrived, clearly glad that you had been able to provide some answers for those who had been pestering her for days on end. Still, she seemed exhausted; you supposed she’d be off to her own rest after getting you settled in.

“It’s to be expected,” you responded with a sigh. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken a job like this so maybe I’m a little out of practice of fielding all the questions, but I should have known it was coming.”

Pepper nodded in agreement, pressing the elevator button. You both stood in relative quiet, waiting for the doors to open and when they did, you stepped inside. Pepper pressed the button for a few floors down and you waited as the car began to move.

She cleared her throat. “I feel I should be completely honest with you,” Pepper said. “Before I even brought you up as a solution, I ran the standard background checks. It had been years since you’d worked for us, I needed to cover my bases.”

You swallowed hard. “Of course,” you answered mildly.

“I came across the details of your last… recovery job,” she went on, speaking delicately.

“I didn’t lie to Captain Rogers,” you pointed out, throat suddenly dry as dust once again. “I’ve found everyone and everything I’ve ever set out to bring in.”

Pepper sighed softly and said your name. “I know that,” she went on. “I just… I wanted you to know, that I knew. What had happened. Tony does too. But only the two of us. It’s your business and it’s not my place to spread it around.”

The elevator doors opened and you flashed her a weak smile. “Thanks,” you said, even as you felt the bile beginning to rise in the back of your throat. “I appreciate that you’d keep it in confidence.”

She led you down another corridor, stopping before a nondescript door and opening it reveal what looked to be a small apartment of sorts.

“Anything you might need is already here,” Pepper said, trying to sound breezy in spite of the dark turn the conversation had taken. “The kitchenette is stocked, there are towels and linens in the bathroom. We brought your suitcase down earlier. If there’s anything else you require, just as JARVIS and he’ll make sure you get it.”

You forced a laugh. “It’s only for one night, Pepper,” you reminded.

“Never hurts to be prepared,” she replied and laughed in return. “Have a good night. If you need anything -- I mean anything, just to talk, or… well, just ask JARVIS. He’ll find me or Tony if need be.”

“Thank you,” you said, smiling until you close the door behind you. You leaned against it, still gripping the doorknob in one hand, and listened for her footsteps to die away down the corridor. As soon as it was quite, you bolted for the bathroom and retched up your dinner.

You downed a few handfuls of water from the tap and then crawled into the overly large bed, not even bothering to change your clothes. Pressing your face into the pillow and closing your eyes, you willed the images already surfacing in your mind away, and prayed for a dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

You woke up screaming. Thankfully you hadn’t moved much in your restless sleep, your cries muffled by the pillows that you gripped against yourself. It took a few strong gulps of air before you were able to calm yourself and even then you were sweating something fierce, the sheets around you damp to the touch. It was morning but early, still dark outside the window, and you figured you may as well get up. At worst, you could rest on the plane.

You slipped out of the Tower early and ran the errands you had planned, loading up on washed-out jeans and faded band t-shirts, as well as a very well-loved hiker’s backpack covered in patches and sewn-up tears. If nothing else, you would look the part; it seemed the best way to approach the wayward Sergeant and gain his confidence, whatever he might be doing in the lost little Romanian village.

It was still quiet when you returned to gather the last of your things and check in with Pepper before heading out to catch your flight. You ran into Steve in the elevator and he wished you luck with a tight smile, asking you to be careful and to call if you needed help. You did your best to assure him that you had it all in hand, but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes as you walked away. Inwardly, you hoped you wouldn’t have to let him down.

You were trying not to get yourself too emotionally invested in the whole affair, but the Captain was making it difficult. The comment about your perhaps drinking a little too much -- a fair point, true, but not something he had any right to discuss -- had made you bristle, but for the most part, you found Steve to be wholly likable. He was friendly and polite, with a certain air of vulnerability that made you feel wildly protective of him, in spite of the fact that he could probably bench press twice your total body weight and then some. What you had read in the Sergeant’s file had only exacerbated that, and you truly did not want to let him down.

 

You didn’t expect to find Natasha standing outside of the door of the room you had used the night before, clearly waiting for you to returning. You slowed your pace in the corridor, unsure of what to expect; her expression was passive, simply watching you approach without saying a word.

You hadn’t wanted to start any trouble but you couldn’t stop the words from rolling off your tongue as you drew closer.

“Can I help you?” you asked, wincing internally at how flippant it came out.

She regarded you quietly a long moment before speaking. “You’ve read his file,” Natasha said in lieu of greeting. “You know what he’s done. What’s he’s capable of. Why are you so determined to involve yourself in this?”

You frowned. “He had his life taken away from him,” you replied. “He couldn’t have deserved that. No one does. You of all people should understand that.”

“You really think you can handle this?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. She was studying you, watching your face for even the most minute of expressive changes. “All of the information on his condition, mental status. That’s all speculation. We can’t be certain what kind of state Barnes is in. He could be dangerous.”

“That’s always a risk in this line of work,” you responded mildly. You knew there was a chance, slim though it might seem, that the Winter Soldier of lore was still alive and well in the shattered mind of Bucky Barnes, but it seemed a risk worth taking. You shrugged. “Every bond, every missing person, it comes with a risk. People don’t always want to be found. Sometimes they’d do just about anything to keep from being found out. I know what I’m up against.”

Natasha stared at you again before speaking; it was unnerving, the way she seemed to read you even as you did your best to remain a blank slate. You felt like all of your secrets were on display, ready and open for her to browse and exploit at her leisure.

“If this goes south, it will crush Captain Rogers,” she told you in a point-of-fact tone of voice. “That’s not something I want to see happen. It’s not something any of us want to see happen.”

“Seems like it’s not doing him a world of good to keep searching and finding nothing,” you replied, shaking your head.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Natasha said. “Words printed on a page mean nothing when you’re faced with the real thing. I’ve met the Winter Soldier. He can’t be reasoned with. He’s inhuman. He will kill you if you get in his way.”

“He saved a boy’s life,” you quickly told her. “You talk about him as if he’s a monster. He’s a still a human being, Natasha. Whatever you knew him as, whatever hold these people had over him? It can’t still exist if he would risk exposure to save a life.”

Natasha cast her eyes downward and shook her head again.

“You need to be prepared for the possibility that Barnes is not the man that you hope he will be,” she told you, and reached into the back pocket of the jeans she wore, producing a small wooden box, the approximate length and width of a candy bar. She held it aloft and indicated you take it.

“What is this?” you asked, frowning at the item in your hand as you took it. The box seemed complete, but looked segmented, as though you could snap it down into smaller components.

“As far as anyone else needs to know? It’s a box. And there’s a harmonica inside,” Natasha told you. She still seemed deadly serious but all you could do was frown in confusion.

“I don’t…?” you started to say.

“It’s a gun,” she filled in. “Very easy to assemble. I know you’ve handled firearms, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Everything breaks down to be reassembled. Be careful pulling apart the harmonica, you don’t want to damage the firing pin. It has two clips so use them sparingly. It will get through customs without a problem.”

You looked up at her in surprise, before glancing back down at the box in your hand. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Like I said,” she told you, beginning to walk away. “There’s always a chance it could go south. I’d rather not see you dead.”

 

Shaken but undeterred, you gathered the rest of your things and checked in with Pepper. Everything was set; you had a taxi waiting and you’d check in once you landed, and then sporadically where possible. Crăciun was barely listed on maps and, from what you could gather, was a largely provincial community, with sporadic use of creature comforts you took for granted. You couldn’t say for certain there was even a phone line within five miles of the place.

Perfect place for a fugitive to hide, as it happened, but a bitch for keeping in contact with your clients. Not as though you hadn’t worked in that sort of environment before, but all of Natasha’s warnings had your worries going into overdrive.

Still, you had made a commitment, and you’d keep to it. Come hell or high water, you were bringing Bucky Barnes home, for good.

You thought you’d run the complete gauntlet at the Tower and stepped in the elevator to let yourself decompress and get back into the proper headspace for your work when a hand pushed through the closing doors and caused them to bounce back open. With a grin, Tony stepped inside beside you.

“Going down?” he asked with a vaguely suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

You rolled your eyes. “Almost made it out,” you said, shaking your head.

“Without saying goodbye? I’m hurt. Truly,” Tony told you, slapping an overdramatic palm against his chest.

You adjusted your backpack on your shoulder and rolled your eyes. “Did you need something, Tony? Or are you just here to try and be witty for a few floors?”

Smirking, Tony shook his head. Clearly he enjoyed his repartee far more than anyone else did. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved what looked to be some middle-school girl’s lost iPhone, decked out in a slightly faded plastic case decked out in printed hearts of varying shades of pink. He held it out to you and you took it gingerly, raising your eyebrow.

“Did Tony Stark seriously just hand me an Apple product?” you asked in a bemused tone.

“Oh, she thinks she’s funny,” he replied, and took it back from you. Popping off the casing, you could see the inner workings of a far more advanced piece of technology than the early model iPhone it looked to be on the outside. “This is some of my best work, kid. Satellite link-up, can get you online and making phone calls, eighteen hour battery charge and that is with heavy use. Closer to thirty-six if you just stash it in your pocket for emergencies.”

Tony snapped the case back on and handed it over once again. “Plus, it’ll look like some piece of Jobs’ crap even in the TSA machines.”

“And how do I charge it?” you asked, a small smile on your face as you spoke.

Tony huffed and retrieved the charging cord from another pocket. “No appreciation for my hard work,” he said, shaking his head.

You pocketed both the phone and the cord, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheekbone. “Oh thank you so very much, Tony,” you told him, putting an effervescent lilt into your voice.

Tony grinned. “Now that’s more like it,” he said. “Seriously, be careful, call in if you get in over your head and for Christ’s sake, don’t use whatever weapons Romanov slipped you unless you absolutely have to, got it?”

 

You were exhausted by the time you actually got on the plane. You left the Tower with a jumble of worries and emotions running through your head, most of them put there by other people. Then you had the brief moments of uncertainty as you passed through the TSA security checkpoint and customs; you’d already switched to your cover identity, a passport under a carefully cultivated false name that you had used once or twice before, and you were carrying both hidden technology and hidden weapons.

All in all, it was a little more than you were used to dealing with.

When you’d finally settled into your first class seat on the Air France flight you were taking to Romania, you were just about ready to crash out for a few hours of mindless sleep; but first, you needed to ensure that it truly was a mindless endeavor.

As soon as you were in the air, the flight attendants began beverage services in the first class cabin, and you smiled and shook your head when the young woman working in your cabin paused to offer you a can of Coke.

“A gin and tonic, please,” you told her, holding out the card attached to your expense account. “Easy on the tonic. And keep them coming.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of lengthy exposition here, but necessary.

Your head was pounding and your lips were numb when the plane finally landed in Cluj. You should have known better than to start drinking gin; for some reason, it always hit you a bit harder than your usual fare of Southern Comfort or Black Seal. You stood in your seat and stretched, realizing how you must look to the other first class passengers, you in your jeans and old t-shirt while they wore suits and pearls. You rolled your eyes to yourself; for all of its creature comforts, the snobbiness of your fellow passengers at the front of the plane certainly put a damper on the perks of flying first class. 

You smiled politely at the flight attendant who had become your de facto bartender for the flight as you disembarked, hurrying to grab your backpack from baggage claim and get through customs. You still had a train to catch, after all. The booze on your flight had seriously diminished your worries, and you didn’t even pass a thought over the disguised Stark tech you were carrying or the some-assembly-required weapon that Natasha had given you; no one else did either, it seemed, and before long you were rushing out into a chill, rainy morning. The train station was nearer to the city center and you had little more than an hour to get there.

The train ride to Zalău was meant to be only a couple of hours, but a delay on the line found you sitting in your private booth, watching the rain outside the window, for two hours before the train even began moving. That was well enough; you needed time to relax and get your head on straight. Even if you could get a car out of Zalău, you’d still have a long hike ahead of you to reach Crăciun. You weren’t particularly relishing the journey, particularly with the rain looking as though it had no intention of letting up anytime soon.

You found a man outside of the train station willing to drive you halfway to the area you were heading for a modest price, but he wouldn’t leave until the following morning; the darkening sky and the steady rain seemed reason enough to linger on in Zalău a little longer than you had planned. You considered stopping into a hostel for the evening but thought better of it, knowing your bunkmates wouldn’t be too keen to listen to your night terrors, so you took a room at the Popasul Romanilor and slept fitfully, waking to a cold sweat early the next morning.

Your driver was waiting for you outside of the hotel and took you as far as the town of Cehei. From there, you would have to hike and Andrei, the man who had given you a ride, warned in sparse English that it would be a rough trip to Crăciun. You simply smiled and told him that you had expected as much, and gave him a few extra lei for his trouble.

 

As your day and your hike wore on, you found yourself glad for splurging a little Stark money on a good pair of hiking boots. Zalău was a city in a valley; without realizing it, you had set yourself up for a good long hike up a steadily rising land grade. The rain kept coming and you hit your knees more than once, slipping on loose gravel underfoot along the only road through a large forested area. Andrew had assured you that, though it would be a rough go, you could make it to Crăciun before nightfall, but as the sky remained gloomy and dark and the forest seemed endless, you had to wonder. When the trees became more sparse and the road turned to dirt, you were able to breathe a sigh of relief, spotting tilled fields and homes dotting the countryside.

You hadn’t even realized that you had made it into the town proper until you spotted a sign in a window advertising _ceai și cafea_ , one of the few Romanian phrases you had memorized. The streets were made of cobblestone and brick, the buildings few but huddled close together. This, you realized as you made your way towards a central plaza, must be the main drag. The roofs were speckled in reddish-orange tile, the buildings brick swathed in plaster; you didn’t think there was a single modern building in the plaza, all of them at least a century old if not more. Crowning the town square was a small but stately church; it reminded you to some degree of old cathedrals you had seen in history books and postcards, but on a much smaller scale.

You ducked into the little storefront and found, as you had expected, a tiny cafe. It was warm inside, wood-paneled and smelling heavenly of coffee and something warm and spiced. The reedy man behind the counter greeted you with a nod and a small smile beneath a thick mustache, then went back to fiddling with a small tablet computer. You had to smile at that: old world meets new in the unlikeliest of places. 

Approaching the counter, you were able to ask for coffee and a plate of mămăligă; the thick corn mash porridge was hot and filling, served with a dollop of sour cream and some sort of soft cheese, all for relatively few lei. You were glad to see that there was no inbred distrust of outsiders, as you had encountered in small towns the world over during your work. The man behind the counter introduced himself as Nicu and managed a few words in stilted English, welcoming you to Crăciun.

You watched the people of Crăciun go about their daily business through the windows of the little cafe as you ate. Several horse-drawn carriages passed by, as well as many, many people on bicycles; only one actual automobile entered the area, a pick-up truck that looked to be at least fifty years old. You couldn’t help but smile; Crăciun was a charming little place, it would seem.

When you finished your meal, you did you best to ask Nicu where to find a hostel or a room to let, though his befuddlement with the language barrier seemed as bad as your own. You mimed ‘sleep’ by pressing your hands together and folding them under your head, but it didn’t seem to strike. 

After a moment of watching you repeat the action. Nicu’s eyes lit up and he nodded, saying “Hram!”

It took some pointing for you to understand that he was directing you to the church, thinking that you had been miming ‘pray’ as you folded your hands together. With a sigh, you simply nodded; if nothing else, perhaps someone at the church could help you. You’d have to study the translation dictionary you had packed once you had a place to rest your head for the night.

With a smile and a wave, you left the little cafe and started the relatively short trek up the central plaza towards the church. The sky had darkened considerably; nightfall would be soon. So long as the church was unlocked, you reasoned, you could pass the night there, if all else failed. 

 

The heavy wooden door gave easily when you pushed, swinging open into a small vestibule with ivory marble floors. There was another set of doors beyond, with two small fonts flanking each side. Out of habit gleaned from a childhood spent in Catholic schooling, you dipped two fingers into one of the fonts and made the sign of the cross before opening the doors into the nave of the church.

The church seemed empty, though candles flickered low along statutes of patron saints that lined the walls. You walked the central aisle, your boots noisy against the polished marble floor, pausing to slip down one row of pews and stand before a familiar statue. Finding a St. Jude statue in a Catholic church was a common affair and didn’t surprise you in the least. Row upon row of tall votives lined the graduated shelf beneath the statue’s feet, with a locked tin box bolted into the wall just to the right and a jar full of long matches to the left. You dropped a few lei into the box and picked up one of the matches, lighting it off one of the already flickering votives, and lighting two more candles. After a long pause watching the flame flicker along the wooden stem of the match, you lit one more candle and blew it out, resting it on a tray of similarly used matches before moving on.

Thinking you had little choice but to wait until morning, you shifted your backpack from your shoulders and dropped it into a pew, ready to settle in before you spied the small confessional booth across the aisle. A little latch on one door was marked with red, indicating that half of the booth was occupied; the other half was green, showing that it was empty. Hoping to find someone who could help you, you decided to slip into the open booth.

Just as you settled onto the small wooden bench inside, a gruff voice came from the opposite side of the mesh divider window, from the priest who had apparently been waiting for a visitor or two.

“Tu vrei mărturiseşti?” it asked. 

You sighed heavily, wishing you had studied more on the train. “I’m sorry, I don’t…” you started, trailing off when you realized that the other person -- a man, no doubt, by the tenor of his voice -- wouldn’t understand.

“Do you want to confess?” the voice asked, clearly repeating his initial phrase in perfectly spoken English.

Your eyebrows went up in surprise. “Actually, I was just looking for some help?” you responded hopefully. “I just hiked into town this afternoon and was hoping to find a place to stay awhile. I’m tired and it’s gotten cold out, with the rain… But I’m having a little trouble asking around.”

The voice chuckled softly. “You won’t find many English speakers here,” he told you.

“Found you, though,” you offered, leaning your head against the back of the booth. You hadn’t been lying; you really were exhausted, your feet still aching and your body chilled from the rain and the cold. You could almost drop off to sleep right there.

He seemed to think a moment before replying. “There is an older woman in town who has a room to let. She speaks some English, and is very kind.”

“Do you think she’d take me in?” you asked hopefully. “I have money, I can pay. I’ve been backpacking for a while, I’d want to hang around for a little while. Get my bearings back, try and learn some of the language.”

“It could work,” he agreed, and you heard him unlatching his door. “I can take you to her, but I’d like to get to know you a little better first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” you agreed, nodding even though the priest couldn’t see you. You unlatched your own door and stepped out, promptly stumbling on the short runner carpet alongside the side aisle; you’d blame your clumsiness or numbness from the cold for it, though you knew immediately it was the sight before you that had surprised you into tripping.

He looked exactly like his old photograph, though his hair was longer and there seemed to be deeper circles beneath his eyes. He watched you with an impassive expression, clearly trying to gage your reliability before introducing you to this woman who might rent you a room. He was dressed all in black, slacks and a buttoned shirt beneath a jacket, and wore a plain leather glove on his left hand. The white collar at his throat made it clear enough; the priest who had offered to take your confession was none other than Bucky Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for my shitty translations.


	10. Chapter 10

Faded black and white photographs didn’t do Bucky Barnes a damn bit of justice. His eyes, listed as blue in his personnel file, looked almost silvery in the low candlelight in the church’s nave, his cheekbones sharp as shattered glass, jaw strong and dusted with five o’clock shadow. You were never the kind of girl to lose her breath over a handsome man, but it was hard to keep yourself from getting a little lost in the moment in his presence.

It didn’t help that you knew his life story inside and out. For all that had happened to him, Bucky Barnes was a damn hero, standing there live in the flesh. It was a somewhat overwhelming.

He smiled gently, mistaking your sudden befuddlement for something else.

“Did you expect Father Andrei?” he asked. “He’s been giving me more responsibilities here, especially on the rainy days when his arthritis acts up.”

“Oh! No, I hadn’t…” you said, shaking your head to clear a few cobwebs out of your head. “I didn’t know if I’d even find anyone in here, but I guess I thought… well, all the priests I knew as a kid were pretty old, you know.”

Bucky quirked a small smile. “I’m older than I look,” he said quietly, and you had to suppress a laugh.

You told him your name and held out your hand in greeting. You didn’t even stumble over your words when you realized you had blurted your real name, and not the cover identity you had used to travel. Bucky smiled and shook your hand.

“James,” he replied, and you arched your eyebrow.

“Not Father James?” you asked curiously.

Bucky shrugged. “The title puts some people off. This village is fairly insular, one of the few little pockets of the faith in the area. It’s easier to greet the rare newcomer on more familiar terms.”

His speech was practiced and elegant, as though he tried hard to keep any casual lilt out of his tone, trying to remain austere but polite. 

“It’s a fairly close-knit community, so you’ll have to understand my reluctance at immediately taking you to Lenuta to ask about the room,” he went on, sinking into a pew and gesturing towards the one behind it with his gloved. You nodded slowly and slipped into the wooden seat, assuming you’d have to justify your presence there.

“So,” Bucky began, and gave you another smile. “How has your day been going?”

You huffed a laugh. “Cold, so far,” you told him, shaking your head. “And damp. How about yours?”

“Quiet,” he replied, gesturing around the empty church as he spoke. “Not necessarily a bad thing. What brings you to Crăciun?”

You shrugged. “It was on my way?” you offered.

“Where are you heading?” Bucky pressed on, crossing his arms over the back of the pew in an oddly casual gesture.

You shrugged again. “That is a very good question, Father,” you said with a laugh. “Anywhere. Nowhere? I don’t know. I’ve been traveling for a while.”

“Are you just looking for a place to pass the night, then?” Bucky asked.

You shook your head, the damp tendrils of your hair sending a few stray droplets of rainwater flying, landing on Bucky’s jacket and bleeding into the fabric without his notice.

“I need to take a breather,” you said, pacing your words slowly, as though you were even still considering your options as you spoke. You were good at play-acting, you always had been. It served you well in your business efforts.“I’ve been moving a long while now and it’s… I guess I’m just tired. This village seems nice.”

Bucky watched you a long moment, steely gaze locked on your face as though he were trying to read your very thoughts. You felt exposed in the very worst way, as though he would pronounced instantly that you were lying and spirit himself away again, leaving you without a lead or any hope to track him down again. There was something in his eyes, in the way he studied your face, that made you believe that you weren’t fooling him at all. Surprising you, he quirked a very small smile and tilted his head to the side, giving a short nod.

“I can understand the need to hold still for a while,” he told you. “You’ll find the people of Crăciun to be very kind and welcoming.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Yeah?” you asked. “I’ve always heard small towns can be a little… selective… about the people they like hanging around.”

Bucky huffed a short laugh and you felt your cheeks heat at the sound. That was definitely not a good sign, not for you.

“Crăciun is a little different,” he told you. “You can’t expect travellers to be turned out in a town called Christmas, after all.” He smiled again, more fully this time, lighting his silvery-blue eyes in a way that seemed almost reminiscent of the cheeky laughter that had danced in them in his younger photograph.

You couldn’t help but smile back. “Is that what it means?” you asked. 

Bucky nodded and stood, motioning for you to follow. “When they built the church, centuries ago, it was dedicated for St. Nicholas. There was no formal village at the time but as it began to build up, that was the name the people chose.”

You had stood to follow him as he walked towards the doors, pausing to grab your substantial backpack from where you had left it in the pew, but Bucky beat you to it, shouldering the heavy pack with a light, effortless touch.

“There aren’t many of the very devout left, and the church is more a community center at this point,” Bucky explained, opening the door for you to pass through into the vestibule. “But it still has some meaning around here. They take the idea of ‘goodwill toward men’ pretty seriously.”

“Does that mean you’re going to introduce me to the lady with the room?” you asked. You paused in the vestibule and pushed open the outer door, holding it open for Bucky, who had lagged behind in taking your pack and opening the inner door for you. He offered you a nod in thanks as he passed through, pausing on the stone steps to hold the heavy door open with his gloved hand, allowing you to follow.

“You seem safe enough,” he told you, and you couldn’t help but pick up on the slight teasing tone to his voice. He seemed to notice it himself as you walked through the slow-falling rain, and cleared his throat. “Lenuta is a widow, her only son died during the riots before the revolution here. She has a home near the main square and could use some help during the colder months, so she won’t ask for much money. I only ask that you treat her kindly, earn your keep.”

You nodded. “I’m no slacker,” you agreed. “I can cook, clean, whatever she would need.”

Bucky laughed softly. “It will be an uphill battle. Lenuta doesn’t like being taken care of - believe me, I tried - but with the cold, I’d rather someone be here to look after her when I can’t,” he warned, pausing at a door on a cheerful little house just off the main square. The front walk was neat as a pin and the wooden door painted yellow, with a wind chime made of blue and purple glass hanging from a hook just above it. 

He rapped on the door with his gloved hand and you noticed how gently he made the motion, as though he were tempering the strength there. You had been briefed on his prosthetic before leaving New York, the strength and power it held, and you were impressed with the way he seemed to have adapted it in this life, so very different from the one he had led as the Winter Soldier. He was so careful with it; you wondered if he had ever touched anyone with that kindness, that tempered strength.

You had a brief thought of what it might feel like against your skin, the metal you knew to be hidden beneath the leather glove, but quickly pushed it away.

You had a job to do. There would be no getting carried away with yourself this time.

Bucky knocked on the door again and called out over the rain, “Lenuta?”

There were lights burning in the lower windows and you could hear the low murmur of what you thought might be a television, so there was no doubt in your mind that the woman was home.

“Lenuta, vreau să cunoști pe cineva,” Bucky called again, and you heard the turning of a lock and the shuffling of a chain before the yellow door swung open.

The woman was cheerfully plump, with rosy cheeks and a pile of frizzy grey hair atop her head. She wore a plain blue blouse, tucked into a high-waisted skirt that fell to mid-calf, black and printed with colorful flowers; her stockinged feet were clad in a faded purple pair of house slippers. She grinned as she greeted you, dark eyes crinkling at the corners with affection.

“Bucky!” she said cheerfully, and ushered you both inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Lenuta, I want you to meet someone."
> 
> Once again, apologies for my shitty translating.


End file.
